I dream of the lone mulberry tree again, the green hue of its leaves strikingly bright against the same desolate landscape, alive in the barren and cold arctic atmosphere, domed-sky tinted grey.

the early years are nothing but pictures
snapshots of a different life lived

There are at times, the good nights—
    where there’s felt the softness of lilacs,
    their color deciding to fill up the morning sky.
There are blossomed animals, soft and dreary-eyed,
    I witness them from the window of my room,
    the glass felt more like a clear. heavy water.

Perpetually fixed, perfectly placed in the
ripeness of summer,
forever teetering on the cusp on June and July;
The body is heavy, flushed, rife - youthfully fertile and
yielding younglings monthly
tenderly sweet, thickly rich as
they dangle from outstretched limbs;

walking at midnight in the city of lights
the street lights flickering with the stars above
a gentle breeze intertwines with my hair
feeling leaves crunch their little deaths
neath my feet on the cobble path

Birch peek with bark eyes,
The hunter shoots, something falls.
They saw nothing here.
Such silent centennials,
All death merges into one.

Vaporous coils of smoke twisted and wafted around the glistening marble pavilion, permeating the air with the sweet aroma of rose that emanated from the copper bowl squatting in a corner of the room. Braziers blazed throughout the pavilion, casting a warm and comforting glow around the room.